


Wild

by ContainThisOrItWillGetGay



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F L U F F, Getting Together, Humour, I'm not sure how to tag this..., Insecure Stiles, M/M, Magical form Change, Raccoon Stiles, SO MUCH FLUFF, Some Mild Scott Dislike, Surprise Peters Not A Mindless Monster And Jeff Can Kiss My Ass, That's a wild tag in itself, badass stiles, feral character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 04:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15404850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ContainThisOrItWillGetGay/pseuds/ContainThisOrItWillGetGay
Summary: AO3 prompt: Steter, theme from Steter Week - Stiles gets stuck in the form of a raccoon for a week. Bonus if Stiles hides in Peter's fashionable clothes for nest. When the spell lets up, Stiles therefore is naked in a pile of Peter's clothes for nest.





	Wild

**Author's Note:**

> Hello ... I nervously teeter into the Steter fiction world for the first time lmao.
> 
> So this is a gift for the lovely CloveeD, who encouraged me to finally give into my love of this pairing. I hope you all enjoy it and you can find me on Tumblr under the same URL as my penname.
> 
> I apologise for any mistakes, this is unbeta'd for now!

 

No one quite knew what to expect as the dust cleared. The magic thrown at Stiles had been powerful, destructive, even Deatons shout had been a hoarse one - the man for once half useful, having returned to give the usual cryptic assistance, he didn’t think Stiles would survive it. 

But the little spark had surprised all of the pack, bar Peter because apparently he’s the only one who knew Stiles wasn’t useless. In a fit to protect himself he’d twisted the destructive magic into something to create and his body had bent in on itself in order to keep itself alive.

Something meant to kill instead broke and built him back again. Changing the human’s form after obliterating his own, and the spark inside him fed the power to do it.

It would wear off, Deaton had muttered, clearly shaken from the strength Stiles had shown in using another’s energy to save himself. Stiles’ spark was already working on rebuilding what had been lost and when the magic reached peak he’d shift back to human.

They’d all stared down at the boy before them, and large eyes blinked up in return. 

A raccoon.

Peter had laughed for an hour at that.

He stopped laughing however, when tiny, vicious little claws took to his shirt in answer, Stiles scrambling over him,  _biting_  in annoyance at Peters delight- the absolute little -

It had taken a good twenty minutes to wrestle him into his arms instead, holding the squirming little thing until Stiles wore himself out, huffing indignantly, glaring up at them all.

Half Feral, Deaton followed the previous announcement with. Stiles had a base knowledge of who was who, and who he deemed safe but some of his actions would be driven by animal instinct rather than his own. 

He allowed Scott to scruff little ears, nestled into his fathers arms - but when others tried they’d get small snarls, a brushy tail of dislike. It was a little amusing in fact, to see who in reality Stiles trusted and who he didn’t.

But Stiles couldn’t stay home alone, and the Sheriff couldn’t take more time off - instead he would trust one of them to care for his son, with daily check ups from himself. That led to an all out screaming match over who would be looking after the bundle of fur and possible rabies.

Scott had school, ruling him firmly out. Stiles scratched Malia, Peter had snorted at that. Derek got a half response, nothing angry but nothing particularly friendly either - placing him in the perhaps category. The raccoon seemed mildly unimpressed in Liam, and flinched from Lydia.

The surprise came, really, when Stiles climbed up Peter’s back, the wolf stiffening for a moment. Who could blame him, with a damp nose against his throat - teeth a little too close for his comfort. 

And then proceeded to curl about his shoulder and neck and fall asleep like some sort of pet.

He was absolutely  _gleeful_  at the look of betrayal from Scott and the offence from his nephew. 

“Of course he likes me, he has  _taste_.” The words were laced in satisfaction, a near shit eating smile awarded to Scott who had scoffed in answer, still thinking himself above everyone. Such a child.

A child with no idea of course.

It had begun after the dread doctors. Time alone led to talking, as it often does. And once the energy left them for spite and snarling Stiles began asking questions. Oh it mostly consisted of why. Why attack, why choose Kate,  _why_  - such a human question.

And Peter hadn’t seen the point in lying. Admittedly, he wasn’t sure they’d make it out again so he thought that perhaps, just once, it would be pleasant to die without being a demon to everyone about him.

And he’d talked, laughed at how his sister thought it alright to erase all memory of his family, of his daughter. At how his nephew and niece left him alone and abandoned in a hospital to  _rot_  after he had been the only one to run back in, how he’d been burnt trying to pull his family from the fire, trapping himself in the circle about the building. About how he didn’t remember much of his time as Alpha, and despite helping. Helping with the Nogitsune, helping with training them, helping with Jackson - the pack labelled him a monster and nothing more.

Kate had been a key to information, that he’d turned over before they locked him away. He’d sneered at the very idea that they all believed he’d work with the little whore who’d killed everyone he cared for.

And in turn Stiles had  _erupted_ , betrayal after betrayal. Never noticed when missing, so easily forgotten by the people who claimed to care. The anger on his tongue at the amount he was left behind, called stupid, told to shut up, the amount he was never believed and yet - he was always right.

Peter had to hand him that, his instincts hadn’t failed yet. Though he may give drastic labels, he’d not been wrong in sensing danger. And he’d not been wrong in knowing something wasn’t natural.

When they’d gotten out the roles were twisted, they’d banded so tightly together to survive being forgotten that, for a small while, Stiles would slip into his apartment to be sure they were real, counting Peter’s fingers as Peter counted his moles. They never spoke of it of course, why would they? It’s not as though anyone listened.

Scott never noticed his scent clinging to Stiles skin, and Peter made sure to hold his tongue in pointing that out, Stiles didn’t need more insecurities, instead he dragged a hand through brown hair as Stiles snored lightly on his shoulder, and left the scent of him a little stronger.

And then Peter had left, for a short while. He had to leave the mess of Beacon Hills behind, a number scrawled on the boys desk - an offer and nothing more.

To his disbelief, Stiles  _had_  text. Back and forth, sometimes mild insults and teasing to ask who he’d murdered that week, talks of shows, of conventions, of further plans and other times stunted asks for the date and time to keep himself in check.

So apparently, Peter thought to himself as he reached a hand up, scratching between two furled ears. They’d accidentally become  _something_.

But the pack wouldn’t know that, why would they? After all the so called best friend didn’t even know Stiles’ favourite characters name, or where he went when he left to breathe after a nightmare. He half didn’t blame Scott, the boy had plenty going on. But the part of him so firmly routed in pack debated wringing his neck at least once a week.

“He stays  _with_   _Peter_.” The Sheriffs word was law, but oh did it cause a rupture. The pack in protest, after all how could they trust him? He’d turned so very many times before. But Peter enjoyed their squabbling, it did nothing more than prove him right.

In the end John stood firm, and after a mild threat of wolfsbane bullets, an exchange of numbers - Peter found himself with a new roommate.

Not precisely how he saw his return to Beacon Hills going, but not entirely terrible either. 

Stiles, as Stiles often did - quickly made himself at home.

In Peters shirts. Much to his chagrin.

“That costs more than your jeep.” 

He sighs when a pink tongue sticks past a muzzle, cheeky little pet, and Stiles  _oh_  so happily drags the black v neck into the pile, fussing with ensuring it would wrap perfectly about him. He’s not even sure how Stiles had gotten it out of his closet, and at this point he couldn’t bring himself to ask. Soft cooing noises leaving the muzzle peeking out from under a white shirt blanket.

Peter would never get all the fur off it. He could already feel himself enter mourning.

The first night was oddly peaceful. Stiles was situated in his growing nest of shirts next to Peters pillow on the large bed, and little paws had slapped at the remote, the wolf watched in amusement as the spark attempted to use small buttons with fumbling claws. But each time he went to take over, he got a huff and the raccoon would hold the remote firmly to his chest.

_Stubborn in every form._

Stiles appeared to be enjoying it. That was the conclusion Peter came to on night three of the transformation. Pushing curly fries into his mouth, tail curling happily. He looked far softer now, after Peter had held him down, forcing a brush through fur, hissing that he would not have Stiles complain about matts when he could inevitably talk once more.

Though Stiles looked much like a common raccoon in shape, his fur was a soft brown rather than grey. Rings of darker colouring throughout, little spots of white where his moles should be. He was… cute. And Peter had taken delight in gathering photo evidence of that statement for use when Stiles was human again.

Peter had all the uses for black mail, and none of the drive to do it. It was almost a pity, that along the way he’d become so possessive in knowing Stiles that he wouldn’t even share the knowledge to shame the pack. 

Such is the life of a wolf, when they find something for themselves.

The Sheriff ( “Call me John”) does stop by each night, sharp eyes surveying Peter in thought. He could see something going on, the only one to do so. But then he  _was_  a father, and Peter could only wait for the time when John would approach in demand to know his intentions.

He’d be quite disappointed to find Peter had none. 

No, whatever this was with the young Stilinski was entirely and wholly  _selfish_. In Stiles he had someone who understood, who's incessant chatter filled the silence left behind by a broken pack. In Stiles he had someone who would hold up to his mind, who could counter each retort with his own and who looked at him with something quizzical.

In Stiles there was a hunger for life that matched his own, and Peter would do all he needed to keep Stiles going.

A selfish need to keep someone  _happy_ , what a strange turn of events.

“You are quite the pest.” The statement is drawn on a growl as he drags the raccoon from his closet, Stiles holding the shirt triumphantly to his chest. Peter would swear he was grinning at him, cocky in the way his ears were perked. “I could shave you, you know. That would deal with the trouble.” 

Peter tugs on the shirt in Stiles’ grip, and the racoon chitters in a way that sounds incredibly sarcastic.  _Just try it, I’ll shove a branch of ash down your throat and choke you with your own shirt. It’s_ mine _now._

What was mildly concerning was that it translated so perfectly even across species.

“You’re an incorrigible brat.” 

Peter drops back onto the bed, shirtless given near all of his clothing was mounting beside him and guarded by a rabid little spark. Stiles perches on his chest, radiating a smug aura that he’s sure could be attested to by anyone in a ten mile radius.

“Yes, yes, go on. Add it to your fortress of theivery.” 

Resigned he closes his eyes, electing to ignore the slight smile curling on his lips. “I’ll have to take one of yours in return you know, whatever will you do then?” 

The rasp of a tongue over his cheek as him pausing, but when he opens his eyes Stiles is already bundling up for the night. Working to drag the spilling pile of what  _used_  to be fashion closer.

When he curls up Peter can count the whiskers that twitch before him, studying a small round face.

He finds he misses Stiles’ face in that moment, pink lips pulled into an ever knowing grin. Long lashes and soft skin.

Brown eyes blink at him, and Peter closes off the fondness in his face, dragging his sheet over his hips and settling back. It would wear off, Deaton had said it so confidently.

Peter wondered how he’d go back to an empty home when it did.

-

Waking was an experience.

Mainly due to the fact that, rather than paws slapping at his cheek for breakfast, or soft snuffles of a sleeping critter - what he was greeted with was a fully human Stiles draped over his chest.

Utterly and entirely  _naked_.

Peter blinks for a second, takes a small moment for himself to admire the curve of his back and the roundness of his ass where Stiles is diagonal across the bed. He takes up so much space, even in his sleep. Thankfully, Peter’s bed has plenty.

Though he would love to enjoy the sight longer - and he most certainly would, in avid detail,  _repeatedly_  - he also wasn’t the type to enjoy without a consenting party. And Stiles had enough taken from him, he should have a choice in this.

So he pulls the bed sheet from under Stiles, noting that rather than waking so easily as he did at home, Stiles rolled with a groan of annoyance, but stayed quite deeply asleep. 

Peter drapes it over expanses of skin, scars and moles scattered about, pulls on a shirt and goes to makes coffee.

He doesn’t make a comment on the fact that, despite a bag of Stiles’ clothing in the corner of the room for this exact situation, when Stiles walks in making grabbing motions at the mugs - he’s wearing Peters clothes.

_“Miss me?”_

The words are something simple, and the smile with them is entirely playful. But theres a look under it all that Peter knows too well, insecurity, nervousness that they all would have liked him better when he couldn’t talk, when he wasn’t in the way.

And Peter finally snaps - ironic, he thinks, that given the pack perception of him it’s taken years to do so- Placing down his coffee cup and striding to the younger man who raises his eyebrows at the movement.

“ _Yes_ , actually.”

The sound of surprise Stiles lets out when Peter kisses him is endearing, and that thought alone is enough evidence for how ridiculously gone he is. Waiting for the flail of limbs to turn into hands fisting in his shirt.

His smile is wolfish when Stiles drags him in, kisses him back, pretends like he’s not beaming himself.

“And the wolfs ego grew three sizes that day.” 

Peter snorts at the breathless, snide comment, backing Stiles to the counter, leaning in to catch his mouth again.

“I believe the actual quote says  _heart_ , Stiles.”

There’s a little intake of breath against him, but Stiles grips for his shoulders and the kiss that follows is  _burning_ , for the first time in days happy to let Peter throw his damned shirts away from them.

“Oh God, I turned you into a  _Nerd_.” 


End file.
